All Through the Night
by Kyllikki
Summary: He couldn't do this again. (Post-ep for "Open Season," aired 11/20/02, re-aired 1/25/03.)


**All Through the Night**

by Kyllikki (kyllikki8@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer:  I'm making tons of money in licensing and advertising fees because I'm Dick Wolf's secret fanfiction-writing identity.  Except not.

Summary:  He couldn't do this again.  (Post-ep for "Open Season," aired 11/20/02, re-aired 1/25/03.) 

NOTE:  This story begins where the last scene of "Open Season" left off; there are **major ****spoilers for that episode herein.**

****

The siren roared to life as the ambulance rumbled off.  Jack stared at the spot it just vacated, letting the not-unpleasant roar in his ears tune out the chaos that always accompanied a crime scene.  The ambulance.  The ambulance carrying Danielle.  The ambulance going to St. Vincent's.  Again.  

Jesus.

The last time... he shook his head to clear the memory.  No.  This was different.  Danielle was alive.  She was alive and she was going to stay that way, because the doorman called the paramedics and the paramedics got here in time and he couldn't do this again.  He didn't realize he was shaking until Serena put her hand on his arm, stilling it.  

"Jack,"  she said.  When he made no move to acknowledge her, she grabbed him firmly by the shoulders.  "JACK."    

It was hard, so hard to lift his eyes to meet hers.  He tried, but the pounding weight of guilt he had only recently managed to shed came crashing back, familiar as an old jacket.  No, he couldn't meet her eyes.  He would find pity there, and concern for his well-being and confusion about why this was crushing him.  She hadn't been there, couldn't understand.  She tried.  Good lord, she tried, and she was intelligent and perceptive and all those things that made a good ADA but she couldn't _know.    _

He heard her talking some more, heard her voice barking orders but couldn't quite make out the words and then suddenly Briscoe was there, right at his elbow, talking to Serena, convincing her to let him go.  He heard her say something to him, voicing her concern, but the words melted over each other and he didn't bother sorting them out.  He nodded at her and tried to smile reassuringly; with one backward glance, she left him in blissful solitude.  Except not solitude; Briscoe was standing there talking to him now, his words only marginally more clear than Serena's had been. 

...got here in time...

...paramedics say she has a chance...

...daughter is on her way up from Virginia...__

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and hunched over.  Why wouldn't they stop talking to him?  If everyone would just shut up for a few minutes, maybe he could figure out how he was going to handle this.  Had to remember from the last time around what to do.  No sweat.  Been through it before.  Just head on over to St. Vincent's and wait for her to die, right?  No, not dead.  Not yet.  Not yet.  Notyetnotyetnotyet...  The roar in his ears became overwhelming and his stomach, which hadn't stopped churning since he picked up the phone, upped the ante and began heaving.  Unable to so much as bolt for a more secluded spot, he doubled over and sent the remains of his dinner splattering onto the asphalt.  Even after his stomach was empty, the retching continued, and he felt a hand reassuringly rubbing his back.  Slowly, the haze cleared, replaced by the bitter aftertaste of vomit, and Briscoe's voice finally became clear.  

"Easy there, McCoy ... you all right?"  

He felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him.  What the hell kind of question was that?  Danielle was clinging to life in the back of an ambulance and Briscoe was wondering about him?  He was fine.  He was... "Fit as a fiddle, Detective.  Nothing wrong with me," he said hoarsely, glancing up in time to see Briscoe's face blanch.  Deja vu.  Which one of them said that last time?  "They're taking her to St. Vincent's..."  His voice trailed off.

"Jack..." Briscoe began, looking suddenly years older.  

"She's alone.  I can't-- can't do this again, Lennie."  Jack felt tears coming, threatening to overwhelm him, and said no more.  Briscoe would understand.  He knew.  He'd been there.  

Briscoe nodded slowly, seeming to come to a decision, and walked over to where his partner was standing a short distance away.  Jack could hear their conversation; Green sounded none too happy.  

"Look, I'm taking McCoy to the hospital," Briscoe said.

"You think he's sick or something?  We got like a million interviews to do, man.  Let Serena take him."

"Ed..."  Briscoe paused, as though at a loss for words.  "It's complicated."

"Complicated is me running the scene and doing witness interviews by myself."

"Hey, how many times have I pulled your ass out of the fire, _partner_?"  Briscoe's voice was sharper now.  "I'm not asking your permission.  This is important.  I'm going.  Get O'Shea to help you if you want, I don't care."

The roar was starting up again and Jack squeezed his eyes shut against it and missed the rest of the discussion but then Briscoe was there again, hand on his shoulder, leading him to the car, it's just around the corner but you have to promise me you won't puke, easy there, don't hit your head getting in, and Briscoe was guiding his head so he wouldn't bump it, just like he was some perp only more gentle, and then they were navigating the streets heading to the hospital, oh God the hospital, oh please God not like the last time. 

Briscoe stayed at his side even as they walked into the ER, guiding his movements with a hand on Jack's back or shoulder or elbow.  As they approached the nurses' station, Jack felt his mouth go dry.  "Danielle-- Danielle Melnick?" he croaked, embarrassed by how fragile his voice sounded.

"Are you family?" the nurse asked.

"No, just--"

"I'm sorry, then, I can't give out that informa--"

"NYPD."  Briscoe cut the nurse off, flashing his badge and using what Jack recognized as his stern cop voice.  "We need to know her condition, and then we need to talk to her."

The nurse glared at Briscoe, but nevertheless looked down at the forms littering the desktop.  "Um... it looks like Ms. Melnick was stabilized down here before being sent to the OR.  Gunshot wound to the chest.  They're in surgery right now to remove the bullet and repair the damage."  The nurse looked up at them.  "Even if she makes it, she'll be under heavy sedation well into tomorrow morning -- you gentlemen will have to wait to question her then."  

Jack swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sour-sweet taste of bile that threatened to reassert itself.  "'Even if'?" he said.

"I really can't speculate on that at this point.  You'll just have to wait until morning."

Briscoe nodded and turned to go, but this time it was Jack who put a restraining hand on his elbow.  "Fine.  We'll be in the OR waiting room."

The nurse looked up at him sharply.  "Shouldn't you be off doing other ... investigation things?  They'll be in surgery for hours.  Nothing's going to change overnight, gentlemen, and the doctors won't let you in to see her until tomorrow."

"Don't tell us how to do our jobs and we won't tell you how to do yours," Briscoe said.  

"Hey, you wanna spend the night sleeping sitting up, it's your call," the nurse replied.  "OR waiting room is up--"

"We know," said Jack, cutting her off and starting down the hall.  We know too well, too well, down the hall and around the corner to the bank of elevators then up, up, up three floors to the same room, the same decor, the same ugly furniture, welcome to the Twilight Zone and enjoy your stay, welcome to the Twilight Zone...

Jack pushed open the door to the waiting room, feeling the knot in his stomach grow tighter.  Not again, this was too much, too much, he couldn't do this again--

They didn't have the room to themselves this time; there was a woman who appeared to be about Briscoe's age sitting on the other side of the room in one of the corner chairs near a lamp doing some kind of sewing.  She looked up and smiled as they entered.  Jack slipped into professional mode, returning her acknowledgment with a short nod and a slight tightening of his lips, all but screaming "I am acknowledging your presence but I do not wish to talk" with his body language.  Embracing the deja vu of the situation, he moved directly to the chair he had occupied six years before and sat down.  Briscoe followed suit.  As soon as Jack sat, the nervous energy that had propelled him through the hospital and through the conversation with the ER nurse left him, and all he could do was stare at the floor.  Nothing to do now but wait.  Wait and hope that history wouldn't repeat itself, that Danielle would hang on.  If only he hadn't done this before so she could sit with him through this, so he could hold onto her and...  

It had been too long.  Too damn long.

***

Jack tossed the battered copy of Time back onto the table and sighed.  He had been through nearly every magazine in the stack and couldn't recall a single word. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, idly wondering why the structure of human physiognomy was such that a hypervigilant state prevented concentration on any one thing.  He heard a low chuckle from across the room and looked up to see the woman smiling at him. 

"Honey, I been through two appendectomies, a compound fracture and the passing of my father in this waiting room.  I learned real fast that there's not one single thing worth reading in that pile, as if you could concentrate enough to read anyway.  After the first time I brought my needlework."

"What is it this time?" Briscoe asked.

"An alphabet sampler.  My daughter's due next month with my third grandbaby and I'm trying to finish before he gets here."

"I meant, what surgery?"

The woman's expression clouded slightly.  "Burt -- that's my husband -- likes his fried eggs and sausage.  Been eating the same breakfast every morning for 37 years.  We was eating dinner tonight and he just kind of clutched his chest and said 'Lois, I think you better call 911' and now they're doing an emergency angioplasty and running a bunch of tests."  She paused for a moment, as though reflecting on this, and then smiled again, though this time it looked forced.  "But look, I got M through P done," she said, her voice artificially chipper.  She held her work out for Briscoe's inspection.  

Briscoe obediently stood up and moved across the room to admire her handiwork, but Jack stayed rooted where he was.  Small talk was just too much.

"You can concentrate enough to do needlepoint in here?" he heard Briscoe asking with a note of incredulity in his voice.

"What good's it gonna do Burt to have me sitting out here scared out of my wits?  None at all.  This keeps my hands busy, anyway."

"I'm going to the chapel," Jack said abruptly, leaving Briscoe to the needlepoint woman's chatter.  

***

The chapel doors swung open silently to his pressure and he stepped inside, relieved to find it empty.  Here, too, nothing had changed.  Why should it?  That was the nature of churches, wasn't it, to be a steady, unchanging presence?  Out of habit more than reverence he crossed himself before making his way to a pew.  He knelt to pray and then laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation.  He hadn't kept his last bargain with the Almighty; of course he hadn't.  Hadn't come back to the church, not really.  God had rejected his offer.  Valid offer, but no acceptance, and therefore no contract.  He hadn't been able to deal with the overwhelming grief.  A conversation with a priest after the funeral and semi-regular appearances at mass thereafter had helped at first, but ultimately had done little to drag him out of his cocoon of pain; losing himself in work and Scotch, though, let him forget quite nicely, and he had teetered precariously on the edge of a bottle for far too long.

Thoughts tumbled over and over in his head, mixed impressions from six years ago and the present.  Danielle being loaded into the back of the ambulance, Claire hooked up to the machines, blood all over the place and blood sterilized away, blindsided both times by the phone call.  He paused, uncertain.  What was it that priest had said?  We don't say prayers for God, we say them for us?  Just like last time, he faltered, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to ask.  He thought of Danielle prone in the operating room, her body first invaded by a bullet and then opened up for a team of strangers trying to save her.  He remembered the fierceness in her voice as she refused to break privilege for a client she loathed, and the sharp pain on her face when she realized the consequences of her violation of the court order.  He recalled the gleam of triumph in her eyes when she won her first acquittal against him, her wicked smile when she offered to buy him a drink to soothe his bruised ego, the soft press of her hand stopping him as he drunkenly moved to kiss her, her delight in the gentle rivalry that developed between them over the years.  He felt nothing.  So he bowed his head and allowed the nothingness to overtake him. 

***

Later.  How much later?  

Bleary-eyed, he looked at his watch.  5:37.  Well.  He'd never fallen asleep kneeling before.  Rising slowly, he cursed the creaks of his aging body.  Sleeping in a kneeling position wouldn't have felt this bad in his twenties, he was certain.  As he stretched the kinks in his neck, he heard a soft cough, and turned to see Briscoe sitting in the pew across the aisle.

"I wasn't sure whether you were sleeping or praying, but I figured in either case it was better not to disturb you."

Despite the surreal situation, Jack smiled.  "Thank you, Detective."  

"The doctor came in a little while ago."  Briscoe cleared his throat and Jack felt his stomach lurch. "The bullet did some pretty serious damage -- straight through a lung, missed her spinal cord by less than an inch -- but they sewed her up okay.  It was touch and go for a while, but the doc says she's got a good chance for a full recovery.  They're keeping her in the ICU until she regains consciousness, just as a precaution."

Jack quickly grabbed onto the edge of the pew to keep from keeling over under a crashing wave of relief.  Full recovery.  Danielle was alive and she was going to stay that way.  Moving on shaky legs, Jack returned to the pew to sit.  He reached up to wipe away the moistness around his eyes.  Alive.  He gave Briscoe a wavering smile.  "Lennie..."

Briscoe nodded in understanding.  "You, uh ... wanna talk about it?"

Jack shrugged.  "You think you get over these things, put them behind you and move on with your life.  But tonight..."  He laughed, a humorless bark.  "She's been my friend for twenty years and she's in that room hanging on by a thread, but I can't feel a damn thing and I can't stop thinking about the last--"  He cleared his throat.  "I think that makes me a heartless sonofabitch, wouldn't you say?"  

Lennie shook his head.  "The night Mike punched that councilman -- this is after he'd caught hell from Van Buren and the rest of the brass for a few hours -- he made me take him out for drinks.  We end up in some pissant cop bar near the precinct, and I buy him a few beers.  I figure, he's on administrative leave now, it's the least I can do.  Anyway, a couple of hours later he gets all morose on me, starts telling me how he's a black cat 'cause two of his partners had been shot and his bad luck must be rubbing off on me, only instead of having a partner shot and everyone feel sorry for me, I'd have a partner busted down the ranks and everyone laughing at me."  

"What does that have to do--" Jack began, but Briscoe cut him off.

"He never talked about it -- ever -- except that one night.  He said the second time he had a partner get shot it was worse than the first, because he knew where it could end and all of a sudden it was like he had to live through Greevey getting shot all over again.  Said he didn't stop shaking for three days."    

Jack paused, letting that sink in.  _Oh, God, Claire..._ he thought, before quickly shutting down that train of thought.  No.  Other things to worry about right now.  Plenty of time later to poke at the reopened wound.  Now, worry about changing the subject.  "Do you ever talk to him?"

"Mike?  Nah, I haven't seen him since the thing with Profaci."

"Wonder what he's doing now?"

Briscoe laughed.  "Ah, with Mikey, who knows?"

Unsure of how to respond, Jack said nothing, and silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable.  "Thanks," he said finally, because it seemed the right thing to do.  But he was unable to meet Briscoe's eyes.

Briscoe reached over and placed a hand on Jack's shoulder.  "There are still days I forget that I don't have to buy Cathy a birthday card anymore."

Jack looked up sharply, in time to catch the pain on his face, and he tentatively placed his own hand on top of Briscoe's.  "I'm sorry.  And I know it was hard for you, too.  Before, I mean."  The words surprised him, popping out before he could consider them.  "Thanks for hanging in there tonight. Why don't you go home and get some rest?"  

He saw Briscoe visibly droop as he made his suggestion, and the detective gave him a tired smile. "You don't have to ask me twice," he said.  "My all-nighter days are far behind me.  Oh, and Melnick's daughter got here a little while ago.  I thought you might want to know."

"Thanks.  Good night, Detective.  I'll pass along your good wishes to Danielle."  

Briscoe gave his shoulder a squeeze and then turned to leave.  Jack watched him slowly exit the chapel and then buried his face in his hands, finally letting the tears come.  The heaving, wracking sobs ripped through his chest and filled the small room; he gave himself over to them.

***

He spotted her browsing through one of the magazines he'd tried to read earlier, curled around in the chair in a vain attempt to get comfortable.  She had the same small form and birdlike features of her mother; but for her hair being longer and several shades darker, Jeannie Melnick was the spitting image of Danielle.  Walking over to her, he offered her one of the cups of coffee he'd just gotten from the cafeteria.

"Jeannie," he said.  "I thought you might like some coffee."

There was a momentary look of confusion on her face before it was replaced by a flash of recognition.  "Jack," she said, smiling warmly and taking the cup.  "Thank you for staying with my mother last night."  She took a sip.  "And thanks for the coffee."  

"No thanks necessary.  I hear the doctors offered a good prognosis."

"They expect her to be awake in a couple of hours.  If you want to stick around, I know Mom would be glad to see you.  She's always spoken well of you."

Jack smiled slightly, feeling the weight of the compliment.  "Thank you, I'd like that.  She's a good woman, your mother."

Jeannie looked at him speculatively.  "That's something, coming from someone who was leading the charge to have her disbarred a few days ago."

"I've known your mother a very long time.  It wasn't--" He paused, searching for the right words.  "I didn't relish it, if that's what you mean."

She stared at him again, hard, probing his face for any sign of deceit.  "I believe you," she said finally.  "Go ahead, have a seat.  You look like hell."

Jack sat and stared down at his coffee, unsure of where to take the conversation from there. 

"The detective who was here told me they caught the woman who shot Mom," Jeannie said a few minutes later.

"Yeah," Jack said.  "Yeah, they did."

"What's she gonna get?"

Jack sighed.  "Attempted murder two?  Probably somewhere between fifteen and twenty years.  Obviously, it won't be my case, but I'll try to help any way I can."

"I don't really want to think about that now.  I was just curious and..."  Voice cracking, she trailed off.  "I don't want to think about that now," she repeated firmly.  She paused.  "Is there someplace-- can we--?"

Jack nodded.  "There's got to be a little restaurant around here someplace that has better coffee than this sludge," he said.  "Do you feel up for some breakfast?  We can go grab a quick bite and be back before your mom wakes up."

Jeannie's mouth wavered, but then Jack recognized the same steely look he'd seen on Danielle's face for years.  "Sure," she said.  "Let's go."  

Jack smiled, just a little, because Danielle still would be there when they got back.

****

For the lovely jael (who reminded me of the importance of verbs) and special guest star Cirocco (whose level of patience approaches infinity and is very good about sharing her toys), my deepest thanks for the excellent beta advice, handholding, and overall encouragement re: tackling Jack.  (His point of view!  Get your minds out of the gutter, people.)

References to the circumstances of Claire's death and Jack's subsequent return to the Church come not from canon but from Cirocco's excellent "Aftershock: McCoy"; this story takes place in the same universe.


End file.
